<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Let Me Crawl Up Into Your Mind by ThatWouldBee_Enough</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29951997">Let Me Crawl Up Into Your Mind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWouldBee_Enough/pseuds/ThatWouldBee_Enough'>ThatWouldBee_Enough</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gay John Laurens, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Henry doesn't know he's talking to John, Incest, John is not having a good time, M/M, Phone Sex, non con is more dubious consent than anything, the whole situation is a MESS</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:53:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,733</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29951997</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWouldBee_Enough/pseuds/ThatWouldBee_Enough</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John is ready to move out of his stifling home in South Carolina as soon as possible. The only problem– he needs money. </p><p>What could be more discreet than a job as a phone sex operator? It's not like there's any chance of his father walking into his place of employment and finding out he has a secret gig on the side. He's able to make his own hours, work from the small apartment above the attic at home. It's perfectly convenient and safe. </p><p>Until he gets an entirely unexpected caller.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Henry Laurens (1723-1792)/John Laurens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Let Me Crawl Up Into Your Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/gifts">my_deer_friend</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>***please read first***</p><p>Do not read this fic if you're going to get highly offended at themes of incest and a teenager working as a PSO. Or if these themes are going to greatly upset you. </p><p>That said, this is absolutely not a glorification of those themes and will be treated as such. It's a dive into a dark and twisted situation. </p><p>Now, if you're still on board, please go ahead and read!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John lounges against a mess of pillows, settled atop a large bed, watching the rain lash against the window outside. He’s tucked away in the small in-law apartment above the garage, barely ever used and perfect for nights like this, far removed from the main wing of the house where his little brother and sisters or– god forbid– his <em> dad </em> might hear something incriminating.</p><p>It’s been a hell of a day. He got into <em> another </em> fight at school– some asshole kid on the lacrosse team who thought it’d be <em> hilarious </em> to pick on a group of freshmen, and, well, John’s never denied that he has a bit of a hero complex. It didn’t do anything to help his self control when he got close enough to hear the taunts– slurs and all. His fist was in the guy’s face before he had a moment to think it through. His dad didn’t seem to care much about his good intentions when the school called. Was more concerned about the potential broken nose on the other kid. He chewed him out right there on the phone before asking to be handed back over to the principal to discuss <em> next steps</em>. He made sure any record of the incident was cleared of course– he always did– and John was released back to class without even a detention. Just a pitying glance and a <em> don’t let it happen again, Mr. Laurens. </em> Yeah. Fat chance of <em> that</em>. </p><p>He’s been saving up. Once he’s old enough, graduated, that’s it. He’s out of this house, out of this <em> life</em>, and he’s not coming back. He can’t stand his dad’s overbearing nature, the stifling conservatism of his hometown, the memories of all the pain and loss. Most days, he feels like he’s drowning in it. He’s sick of sinking. But John has no delusions that moving out on his own will be easy, so he’s taken on the most discreet job he can think of, no chance of his dad or anyone else in his family finding out and ruining it for him. </p><p>He stares down at the phone impatiently. He logged in twenty minutes ago, and hasn’t received a single call. Fridays are normally high volume nights. Where <em> is </em> everyone?</p><p>He stands up abruptly, about to start pacing, needing to work out some nerves, when a loud notification makes him jump and turn back to the bed. He reviews the details. Call in five minutes. Daddy kink. </p><p>He hops back up onto the bed, stretching out. It hits a little close to home with his own complicated relationship with his dad, sure, but it’s a common enough request. One he has practice with by now. After all, a lot of the men calling are older, lonely, looking for someone to take care of and connect with in a safe, anonymous way. He can sympathize with <em> some </em> of that at least. And, well, money’s money. </p><p>When the phone rings a few minutes later, he takes one last deep breath, and answers, dropping his tone low and alluring. </p><p>“Hey, daddy, thanks for calling. Any special requests tonight?”</p><p>“Hello.” The responding voice is deep, steady– unsettlingly familiar, though John can’t quite place it. A lot of these guys sound similar. It’s probably nothing. “I want to do some father-son role play, but you know that already, don’t you?” There’s an amused tilt to his voice in the question. </p><p>John swallows down the tight feeling in his throat. “Yeah, I saw that in your request.” He tries to keep that subtle purr in his voice that older guys seem to like so much. “Did you have anything more specific in mind?” He pauses for a moment, then decides to lean into it. “I want to be good for you, daddy.” </p><p>He hears the guy’s breath catch on the other end of the line, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He’s getting good at this. </p><p>“I do have some more specific requests. I want you to act like you’ve misbehaved. And I want to punish you for it. For disobeying me. Can you do that?”</p><p>“Okay, sure,” John says gamely, propping the phone up against his shoulder as he stretches. This isn’t an unusual request either. Standard really. Just testing the lightest limits of BDSM, punishment kinks. That’s why so many people call these lines after all. To try out things they can’t do with their own partners. He wonders vaguely if the guy has a wife. “And what have I been doing to deserve such a punishment? I must have been pretty naughty.”</p><p>“Yes, you have been,” he says, matter of fact. “Acting out at school. Getting in fights with the other boys.” He pauses for a moment, the sound of a sharp exhale breaking the silence. “Not living up to the expectations your daddy has set for you.”</p><p>John’s brow furrows as he listens. This is starting to hit <em> really </em> close to home. Nothing is <em> particularly </em> off. None of it crosses any of his hard lines. But it’s <em> weird</em>. Too specific. It’s as if this guy has been watching him, spying on his <em> actual </em> life and is pinpointing exactly the right things to reprimand him for. And that <em> voice</em>. He still can’t place it, but it’s so familiar. <em> Why </em> is it so damn familiar? Before he has a chance to respond, the man speaks again. </p><p>“One more request. I’d like to call you Jack, if that’s alright.” </p><p>
  <em> Oh.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh no. </em>
</p><p>That <em> voice </em>. The realization comes barreling towards him like a train. And he’s glued to the tracks. Frozen. </p><p>
  <em> Oh shit.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. No. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No no no no no.  </em>
</p><p>“I–” He can’t get words out. Can’t speak, can’t <em> think </em> because he <em> finally </em>knows why that voice sounds so familiar. He had just heard it over the dinner table. Had listened to it while he was scolded for poor choices and bad judgement. His lack of discipline. No wonder it was familiar– he hears it every single day.</p><p>This can’t be real. </p><p>
  <em> It can’t. </em>
</p><p>The universe must be playing some sort of cruel joke on him. </p><p>The punchline will be coming any minute.</p><p>“Are you still there?”</p><p>He swallows hard, but his throat still feels dry when he manages to choke out a few words. “Yes. Sorry, yes, I’m still here.”</p><p>“So?” </p><p>John closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, his fingers digging hard into his own thighs. <em> What the hell is he going to do? </em> If he says something <em> now,</em> his dad will <em> know</em>. </p><p>He can’t. </p><p>He can’t <em> know</em>. </p><p>He can’t know that John is <em> gay, </em> and he <em> certainly </em> can’t know he’s working for a gay phone sex line. </p><p>But he can’t <em> hang up.  </em></p><p>He needs this job. He needs the money. Disconnecting on customers isn’t allowed unless something explicitly <em> not allowed </em> goes down. He’s already lied about his age to get the job. The last thing he needs is someone looking harder into his identity. Telling them the caller is his <em> dad </em>would certainly raise questions. He can’t afford questions.</p><p>He needs this job. </p><p>It hits him all at once– he only <em> has </em>one option. </p><p>Oh <em> god</em>. </p><p>He opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling helplessly, searching for some sort of answer– or maybe forgiveness. </p><p>“Of course, daddy. Whatever you want.” The words taste like bile in his mouth. Wrong and stale. Acidic. Like they’re going to burn open his throat on the way up. </p><p>Henry hums a pleased note, low and hungry, and it makes John’s stomach flip. “It’s nice to hear you being so polite now... <em> Jack</em>.” The way his father’s voice seems to caress the word doesn’t help the uneasy feeling that seems to be clawing at his insides. “Are you ready to apologize? You really disappointed me earlier, acting out. I raised you better than that.”</p><p>John adjusts on the bed, tucks his knees up to his chin and wraps an arm around them, as if he can physically block out what’s about to happen by curling up tight. “I’m sorry, daddy.”</p><p>He hears a quiet <em> tsk </em> on the other end of the line, a low sigh of disappointment. “You’re going to have to apologize better than <em> that </em> if you want my forgiveness. Be more specific. I need to be sure you know why you’re being punished, or you’ll never learn your lesson.”</p><p>It’s the same sort of thing he’s said to John time and time again when he’s digging for an <em> appropriate apology</em>. It’s awful. The words taste too perversely familiar. “I–” He chokes off, glaring down at the blanket on the bed, focusing his distress on the fibers as if they’ve personally wronged him. <em> Fuck. </em> He tries to fixate his mind on a character he’s playing instead, not actually <em> John</em>. Just someone with his name, with his misdeeds, with his <em> father</em>. “I’m sorry for misbehaving, daddy,” he chokes out, quick and already flushed with mortification. </p><p>“Jack,” Henry sighs in that heavy, disapproving tone. The same one he had used earlier on the phone while John stood angry and embarrassed in the principal’s office, but heightened with an edge of something darker. “You can do better. You’re only making this worse for yourself.” He pauses for a moment, as if considering, and then, “I’d rather you call me <em> sir</em>. If you’re asking for my forgiveness, you should be showing proper respect, don’t you think?”</p><p>He grasps tighter, almost to the point of being painful, around his own knees and squeezes his eyes shut. <em> Of course. </em> Henry’s always had a thing for being shown <em> proper respect</em>. John shudders, wondering if he gets off on hearing that word. <em> Sir. </em> He’s said it so many times over his life. It somehow feels both natural and completely wrong to say it now. “I’m sorry for fighting, sir. And for disappointing you.” He takes a shaky breath, trying to remain in control of himself. <em> Self control</em>, he thinks ironically, nearly hysterical in the cage of his own mind. A lesson his father has attempted to instill in him time and again. “I promise it won’t happen again. I’ll be better. For you, sir.”</p><p>Henry hums a low note, slightly amused, but pleased. “We’ll see about that. Now, are you ready for your punishment, my boy?”</p><p>His heart feels like it’s beating too fast, hammering against his ribcage, but he forces himself to keep going. “Yes, sir,” he says, doing his best to keep that edge of allure in his tone even as his heart screams <em> no, no, no</em>, even as all he wants is to throw his phone out the window, to scrub the memory of this night from his brain. To hide in his own bed, under the covers, tucking himself away from whatever <em> this </em> is. </p><p>“Good. I want you bent over my knee. Come here.” John can hear the heat edging into his voice, burning, even through the phone. Even though the rain outside has brought a chill, he feels uncomfortably warm in the stuffy little room over the garage. </p><p>He swallows hard. “Okay.” Shifting atop the bed, he lets the rustling noise mimic movement over the line to play into the illusion. Knows Henry– <em> his own father</em>– is imaging it. John stretching out over his lap, laying himself vulnerable and prone. The perfect picture of obedience, contrition. He brings a hand up over his face, pressing the palm into his closed eyes. “Like this, sir?” he asks, doing his best to hide his own dread. </p><p>“Yes.” John feels an uncomfortable shiver run up his spine at that dark, pleased undercurrent in his voice, the way he almost groans the word. “You’re perfect like this, Jack. I want you to count for me. Will ten be enough to make the lesson stick?” </p><p>He takes a shuddering breath. At least if Henry can hear it, it will only seem like he’s nervous about the punishment. “Yes, sir.”</p><p>“See? I knew you could be good for me if you tried. Brace yourself,” he says, soft and dangerous. “I’m not going to hold back. I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to learn.”</p><p>He wonders how much of this is sexual, and how much is just his father, wanting to play out a scenario in which he reigns in his son’s temper and actually succeeds in controlling him. He’s never tried to make things easy after all. Perhaps this is more paternal exhaustion than anything else. A need for some sort of control. Maybe he can live with this if <em> that’s </em>all it is. </p><p>Even without the shock or pain of the physical impact, John jumps when he hears a loud, cracking noise over the phone. He’s so distracted by the sound, wondering whether Henry is slapping his own thigh– because it sounds <em> far </em>too realistic to be anything other than a hand on skin– that he forgets to respond. </p><p>“Jack,” Henry says, his tone thick with disappointment. “I told you to count for me.”</p><p>He’s deadly quiet on the other end, and John can picture it easily. Eyes intent and burning, mouth set in a slight frown, his expression a hard and steady mask of authority. </p><p>“I’m sorry, sir,” he says quickly. His voice sounds so small it reminds him of years ago. His father hasn’t hit him since he was fourteen, but he still remembers how it feels. Can recall the humiliation and the panic, the hot rush of shame. He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”</p><p>“Another two, I think, for your carelessness,” Henry interrupts. “Now, don’t forget to count this time or I’ll have to use the belt.”</p><p>“Please don’t, sir.” He can feel the panic rise in his throat even now at the threat. Like the reaction is ingrained in some deep part of his brain, even though Henry isn’t <em> here </em>to follow through on it. “I promise I’ll be better.”</p><p>He breathes a quiet sigh through the phone, and it sounds almost amused. “Alright then. Count for me this time. And start at one– that first one doesn’t count.”</p><p>John takes another deep, shuddering breath, and this time when he hears the moment of impact, he forces out a quiet whimper, followed by <em> one </em>. It’s easy enough to get lost in a memory, to imagine this really is nothing more than his dad punishing him for his behavior like he has so many times before. The illusion allows him to sink into it, to react how he should, with little gasps and cries, counting each stroke. </p><p>They get to five before Henry stops to prod him. “Tell me how it feels.” His voice sounds <em> wrong</em>– too hot and too intense, searing– and it snaps John out of his memory and back to the present. </p><p>He isn’t sure he can form a full sentence. His throat feels unnaturally tight. “It hurts, sir.” </p><p>Henry breathes a quiet laugh. “It <em> hurts? </em>” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“You can do better than that, surely.” Another stinging slap rings through the phone.</p><p>“<em>Six,</em>” John cries out, obedient. “It <em> burns</em>,” he adds with a whine, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering the sensation as best he can. “Like my skin is on fire. Like every spot your hand touches is branded.”</p><p>The noise on the other end of the line can only be described as a growl. Low and <em> hungry</em>. Oh <em> god</em>, this is too much. He could end it all right now, hang up and try to pretend it never happened. But he <em> needs </em> the money. He’s already gotten this far. He’ll already be scarred from the whole experience. No use losing his job over it. </p><p>He grips his arm tighter around his knees as he hears the next blow, can practically feel the sting of it, and he lets out a noise that, embarrassingly, sounds almost like a sob. </p><p>When they reach the end, John can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It’s <em> ridiculous</em>. It’s not as if Henry has actually hit him, but he feels raw all the same. Torn open and laid bare, as if he’s nothing. </p><p>At least, he thinks, this awful, confusing, horrifying situation is almost at an end. He imagines it won’t be long now before Henry– done with this perverse fantasy of punishment– ends the call. John’s too ready for this to be over to forget his role now as he cries a final, <em> twelve, sir, </em> and lets his posture relax as he sinks back against the headboard.</p><p>“And what do you say, Jack?” Henry asks, voice rough and slightly strained now. </p><p>John swallows around the uncomfortable dryness, feeling mortified heat rise to his face. “Thank you, sir.” </p><p>“Have you learned your lesson?”</p><p>His breath catches shakily on the inhale. “Yes, sir. I promise, I won’t let you down again.” He shifts on the bed, untangling his limbs and stretching his legs out. They’re stiff, sore. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding. </p><p>“That’s my good boy,” Henry tells him. The possessive pull in his voice makes the fine hairs on John’s arms stand up. “Finally ready to behave for me.”</p><p>He feels something twist in his stomach. </p><p>“Does it still hurt? When I run my hand over your backside?”</p><p>“What–?” John starts, the words choking off uncomfortably. What more could he <em> possibly </em>want from this? They had played through the twisted fantasy, John had apologized, deferred to him, been the obedient son his father clearly desires. What more is there?</p><p>“You’ve been so good for me, Jack. So good,” he says quietly, almost soothingly. </p><p>It doesn’t soothe John.</p><p>He brings a fist up to his mouth and bites down on it to stop the stream of curses that come to mind. </p><p>“Are you ready to prove just <em> how good </em> you can be?”</p><p>
  <em> No. God no, he can’t really mean– </em>
</p><p>“Well? Jack?” There’s an edge of impatience there now. <em> Fuck. </em> He needs to respond. John has seen his father complain to management over undercooked steak and poor service while out shopping. He has no doubt, if John fails to deliver on <em> this </em> part of the call, that a complaint will be made. It’s enough to shake him out of his shock. </p><p>“What do you need me to do?” he asks, playing naive. Maybe he’ll be able to talk his way out of it. “I could apologize again, if you want, sir.”</p><p>“No, you’ve been very contrite.” He lets out a pleased sigh. “I appreciate your apology, my boy. Now, I want to appreciate <em> all of you</em>.”</p><p>“All of me?” John manages, his voice just barely cracking. He squeezes his eyes shut again. Maybe if he can’t see the world around him, he can block reality out entirely. </p><p>But Henry’s voice still rings clear and hot in his ear, like a sick tragedy he can’t turn away from. “I’ve been wanting to for so long.” <em> Oh god. </em>“To feel you underneath my hands, to protect you from the rest of the world. I want to show you, Jack, that I can make you feel good if you’ll just let me in. I want you to trust me. Submit to me.”</p><p>The weight of his silence demands an answer, so John forces a single word out of his mouth. “Okay.”</p><p>“Say it.” Henry’s voice is steady and sure and heavy with command. John feels a shiver tickle his spine, wondering how long these thoughts have been occupying his father’s mind. Wondering if Henry’s ever seriously considered any of this. How often he calls numbers like this one. How often he <em> thinks </em> about things like this. “Tell me, Jack. Tell me what you need from me. I’m here for you.”</p><p>He barely registers the words spilling from his lips now. Doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Please, sir.” It’s quiet, almost solemn. “I need you. Need you to touch me and hold me. Please let me be good for you.” He feels sick. </p><p>“I wish to do more than just <em> touch </em> you. I need to be inside you, Jack. As close as I can be.” He lets out a reverent sigh, and John feels the goosebumps rise along the flesh of his neck as if he’s there, Henry’s breath brushing his exposed skin. “Connected,” he adds, so quietly John isn’t even sure he’s meant to hear it. “Will you let me inside you, Jack?”</p><p>John hopes, if there is a god, that he’ll be forgiven for his next words. “Yes. Whatever you need, sir, take it.”</p><p>Henry lets out a breath that sounds almost wild. It feels wrong, like John’s seeing an ugly layer underneath the stoic veneer his father usually keeps so perfectly balanced. As much as these words are meant for <em> him</em>, he was never meant to hear them. It’s a strange sort of mutual violation– of his father’s private, darkest thoughts, and his own sanity. His blissful ignorance and innocence shattered in an instant.  </p><p>“Up on the bed,” Henry urges, clearly picturing the scene playing out as he speaks. Try as he might to block the images out, John pictures it too. Climbing up onto his father’s large bed in the middle of his room, a room that usually feels forbidden, untouchable. The fear of his father’s disapproval and discipline usually keeps him away. But now, in this warped fantasy, he’s invited inside, stripped bare and caressed, those strong, capable hands tracing the lines of his body, seeking out places they should never touch. </p><p>He lets his mind drift with the mental images as Henry speaks, offering responses in short phrases and wordless sounds. Gasps and whimpers. Sometimes, on calls like this, he can function on autopilot to a certain point. Reciting practiced phrases and lines, encouraging noises meant to please the man on the other end, without really thinking about what he’s saying. For whatever reason, the universe doesn’t let him off so easy tonight. Every word Henry utters is translated to action and burned on the inside of his eyelids. He can’t escape those hands as they stroke along the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his waist, as they pull him closer, and then press him to the mattress. </p><p>He is so intimately familiar with his father’s expressions and mannerisms that it all feels disturbingly, vividly real. His mind fills in the gaps that Henry fails to specifically dictate. He can practically smell his father’s cologne, feel the sharp press of fingernails where they dig into his skin. The warm brush of lips along the ridges of his body. He can see the way his father’s eyes darken as he looks into John’s own, spreading him open. The way he holds him steady as he pushes inside, slow and careful. Inevitable. Unrelenting until he’s all the way in, as far as he’ll fit, the weight of his body pinning John to the mattress, chest heaving against John’s own, positioned this way because he wants to <em> see</em>. Wants to watch his son’s face, to catch every moment. <em> Connected. </em></p><p>“You’re <em> perfect</em>,” Henry growls, intimate enough that it’s almost as if he’s actually there, breathing the words directly into John’s ear, all rough heat and passion in a way that twists and heaves in John’s stomach, tying his conscience into knots. “You were made for me. Just for me.” John hears the desperate, urgent hitch in his words. A sound he’s heard often enough from other men. A sound he had never in his worst, most disturbing nightmares imagined he’d hear from <em> this voice. “My Jack,” </em>Henry groans with all of the burning, tangled emotion that he absolutely should not be feeling. “Cry out for me, son.” </p><p>John’s face feels like it’s on fire– his whole body feels <em> wrong </em> – as he forces out a gasp of what he can only hope sounds like pleasure. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he hears a wild groan over the phone, and all he can picture is Henry, <em> his father</em>, holding himself deep as he comes hard and desperate inside of him, frantic and searing and so horribly wrong. The line is silent for a moment, and then, in barely more than a whisper, Henry repeats, <em> “So perfect,” </em> one last time before the line goes dead. The simple beep as the call ends sounds too bland, too utterly normal to his ears. It’s jarring.</p><p>John immediately logs off. He can’t take any more calls tonight. </p><p>As soon as the phone slips from his fingers and hits the blanket, he feels his lungs squeeze tight, compressing painfully as he stares down at his own hands. A shocked sob racks through his body, seeming to shake something irreparably loose. </p><p>He curls in on himself, and the tears finally fall. </p><p>John isn’t sure if they’re fueled by anger or sadness at this point. Fear maybe. Confusion. Disgust. It all blends together until it’s indistinguishable, a mess of feeling that consumes him for hours as he tries to make sense of it. He claws desperately at his own memories, searching for hidden clues. Surely, there had been signs. He should have known. There must have been <em> something</em>. He comes up empty, but still he wonders what piece he’s missing in this awful puzzle. </p><p>He wonders if after all this, he’ll be able to face his father over breakfast tomorrow morning. If the sick feeling burning in his gut will subside by then. </p><p>Or ever. </p><p>The tears fall until numbness sinks in. Exhaustion creeping through every inch of his body. The emotional toll of the evening slowly devouring him. It feels like a violation in its own way. Like his soul has been stripped bare too. </p><p>One thought keeps circling back to him– <em> why? </em> </p><p>What did he do to deserve this unsettling weight on his conscience? Did he give some sort of sign that he wanted this? Did he offend the universe in some way? Do something terrible to bring on this heavy karmic retribution? Is it some sort of divine punishment for taking the job as a phone sex operator? He had silently laughed to himself last Sunday, thinking about the irony of it all while he knelt at the pew with his family. What if god has a fucked up sense of justice? </p><p>When he finally feels too worn out even to cry, John drags himself up from the bed, untangling stiff limbs and shuffling through the house, huge and empty and quiet at this time of night, slipping back into his own bedroom. He’s grateful when he runs into no one but the family portraits staring at him from the walls. His father’s eyes seem to follow him down the hall, staring into his soul like they <em> know</em>. </p><p>It’s a relief to finally crawl into his own bed. </p><p>When John hears the door to his bedroom slowly creak open some time later, he doesn’t pick up his head. He hardly breathes, staying as still as possible as he lays there, eyes determinedly shut. </p><p>He’s been expecting it. His father usually comes up to speak with him when they argue– later, once they’ve both had a chance to cool down and clear their heads. He wonders if his father always clears his head the way he did tonight, with thoughts of John underneath him, pliant and obedient– the perfect son in the most twisted way. </p><p>He’s not ready to face him yet. </p><p>The only warning before the mattress dips with his father’s weight is the soft brush of feet on the carpet, purposely quiet footsteps intended to let him sleep. </p><p>John feels his heart constrict, unsure what to expect after everything he’s heard tonight. He forces himself to take deeper breaths. He needs to keep up the illusion that he’s asleep. A hand reaches towards him, pushing away the hair from his face, one thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone. “Oh Jack,” Henry sighs fondly, voice so soft it’s hardly even a whisper. John can’t help the way he tenses as his father leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, chaste, though his lips linger just a beat too long. “I love you, my angel. Sleep well.” He leaves as quietly as he entered, the door closing softly behind him. John blinks his eyes open and stares at the dark wall. The room seems to close in around him. Too afraid of what might come in his dreams, he doesn’t let himself sleep at all. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cannot tell you all how tough this was to write 😭</p><p>Happy birthday to the one and only @my_deer_friend who constantly supports me in all my craziness, encourages me, inspires me, and makes me better in every way. Glad to be able to bring your twisted vision to life with this piece!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>